


Three Trials for a Hand

by Askell



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: A Little Bit Of Crack, A little bit of angst, Crack Treated Seriously, F/M, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Family, Family Drama, Family Feels, Grandmothers, Humor, I would die for Ghislaine 'Sticky' Pankratz, Jaskier's 6 sisters, Jaskier's grandma, M/M, Mutual Pining, Original Character(s), Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, POV Alternating, POV Multiple, Siblings, Wedding Drama, a lot of pining, dramatic grandma, much ado about ribbons, peak siblings relationships, there was so many more, unless??, we thought there was one dramatic binch in this house
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 07:41:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23467792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Askell/pseuds/Askell
Summary: “Indeed, Lady Rosetta Caroline Pankratz sent me a missive-” He searched in his pocket, taking his time to unroll the paper. “‘Dearest Julian, I am dying. Marry quick.’ And who am I to refuse the requests of a dying old woman? We shall be wed next Sunday!”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 45
Kudos: 171





	1. Grandma's dying wish

**Author's Note:**

> I love imagining Jaskier's family. In my previous story (unfinished, I know, I'm working on it my dear darlings), it was a rather sad and broken family. Here, it's the exact opposite and much more like mine: lots of people, peak sibling relationships, and young children covered in sticky substances no matter how much you try to rub their faces with a tablecloth corner.  
> Thanks to the people of the witcher server who once again provided me with excellent brainstorming sessions, yall are the best <3 @Chakolit-Chip (Jaskiest Alain) and @blackadlerqueen (Frankie Valli of Plenty) Also thanks to CatKir who was the first to read it!
> 
> Like and subscribe, as the younginnits say ;)

Isabella gathered her skirts in her haste to run down the stairs. A wedding! What a beautiful, exciting, worrisome affair. She remembered her two older sisters’, the agitation, laughs and tears. May Melitele ever spare her from going through such trials. The young woman was gently barreled into by her youngest sister, a round and bubbly four-years-old with a ring of raspberry jam around her mouth. 

“Take care of her,” ordered her mother hurriedly, arms full of flower bouquets. “And for god's’ sake, clean her up!”

“I’m not her nurse!” Isabella tried to protest, immediately shushed by a glance. “Ugh, come here Sticky.”

“What’s happening?” the little girl asked while her sister attempted to rub the jam away from her face, hands and hair. 

“Do you remember Juju?” Isabella started, as Sticky shook her head to the negative. “The man who sung princess stories to you?” 

“Yes! There was Princess Longmane and she was super pretty and she was in a tower and the evil witch-” she excitedly started to retell, proving she knew.

“Yes, yes, that one. Well, he’s getting married.” Isabella gave up on the stains on her sister’s dress. She had already ruined one handkerchief making her presentable. “Now we all need to get ready because papa will make a speech in front of the bannermen.”

“Can I be a bannermen?”

“No you can’t.” She hoisted the little girl in her arms, looking around to see if she could give her to another of her sisters. “Caro!”

“Don’t even look at me, Isa! I have enough to deal with at the moment,” yelled Caroline from the room where she had just disappeared carrying a large basket of freshly cleaned petticoats. 

It was a testimony to how agitated the household was by the news if they started helping the maids. Judging that watching over Sticky was the least tiresome chore, Isabella carried her to the main room. There, at least twenty people were working on making the place look presentable, tending fires, laying down the nice cutlery, dusting off trophy heads. In the middle of it, their father looked like the eye of the storm but she knew he was probably the most stressed out of the whole house. 

Sitting at the corner of one of the lit up fireplaces, Isabella endeavored to distract her little sister with hand games and what she could find in her pockets. 

“Is Juju marrying a princess?” the little girl asked, not raising her eyes from the ribbon she was playing with. 

“I don’t know,” Isabella answered, hand-combing Sticky’s hair to braid it. “Last time she said she was nobility but she didn’t even know how to hold a fork. The time before I think she was a lady but she didn’t last long enough to say her full title.”

“When I grow up I want to marry a princess and be a princess. We will have a big castle and lots of gold for our pet dragon.”

Isabella snorted in a quite unladylike manner. “Well I hope you do because when all of us are married off, there won’t be any dowry left.”

“What’s a dowry?”

The conversation carried on, between Sticky explaining her masterplan to be super pretty and have a pretty sword in case evil witches want to take away her dragon, and Isabella wondering aloud why people still bothered making wedding preparations for their older brother. Julian was a stray cat in every way possible, coming home when his pockets were empty or for his bi-annual reminder that he needed to find himself a spouse, or Grandma would die without seeing his wedding.

He wasn’t her favorite grandchild -Sticky had stolen his place when she opened her lovely little green eyes-, but he certainly was the one everyone couldn’t stay mad at for too long. Otherwise they would be mad all the time. Not for the first time, Isabella wished she’d been born a man so that people would let her get away with everything. 

Speaking of the devil, her brother rushed through the room like a gust of lavender-drenched wind. As always, he was dressed like a dandy peacock. One thing she appreciated about her visits was the number of clothes he would abandon in his path that she could steal and tailor for her own use. As the best seamstress of the family, she got first choice at everyone else’s used clothes. 

“Julian!” she called. “Sticky is asking if it’s a princess this time.”

The man stopped mid-momentum, never quite still even when he stopped fluttering around. 

“No it’s not a princess, sorry to disappoint.” He grinned still. “This time I thought to bring some novelty, otherwise I know you’d grow bored.”

“Can’t help growing bored, with that face of yours.”

“We have the same face.” 

“Gods I hope not. I could never show myself in public.”

“Ha, ha. Very funny. You have jam on your chin.”

“Fuck’s sake-”

“Gotta go retrieve my lovely fiance,” Julian said, “You two stay here, I think papa will explode if there is more people around him.”

Their father did look close to explosion, face red and thick brows so tightly frowned it looked like he had only one. A few minutes after Julian had vanished off, a stranger walked in the main room. At first, Isabella believed he was an executioner: all dressed in black, really long sword in his back and the face of someone who kills criminals as a hobby. However, as her mother said, better someone does it professionally than people deciding they should do it themselves. 

She kept observing the man trying to find his way in the room without hitting any of the scurrying lackeys. He was about as tall as their father when he still walked, but decidedly larger than even his bulkier bannermen. He also carried not one, but two swords on his back, she noticed. All the men she knew carried theirs on their hip, but again if he was an executioner maybe that was something they did. Isabella didn’t know enough of them to say. 

Distracted, she missed Sticky getting up and running after one of the cats. Isabella stepped on her skirts as she tried to catch the little girl, and watched in horror as she ran straight into the dark man’s legs, following the cat who jumped between them. Sticky bumped against the man’s calf and fell backward on her rump. The man turned slowly, even more menacing than before. Too awestruck by the absolute mountain looking at her, she didn't even cry.

“I’m so sorry, sir, she didn’t mean to-”

“It’s fine,” he grunted, voice like an avalanche. 

Moving with far more grace than Isabella anticipated, the man then knelt in front of Sticky to help her get back on her legs. He was also much younger than she thought, perhaps in his early thirties. The small smile he gave the little girl was a breathtaking thing. _Damn, he’s actually rather good-looking,_ she thought. 

“Who are you?” Sticky asked without a shred of decorum.

“My name is Geralt of Rivia. Are you okay?”

“I’m Ghislaine!” she answered, bouncing in place. “Is that a real sword?”

“Alright little lady,” Isabella intervened, taking her sister by the shoulders to redirect her toward a bench. She then properly curtsied, unsure of the man’s rank. “Sorry again about that, she hasn’t been taught proper manners yet. I am Isabella Rosetta Pankratz, welcome to Lettenhove castle.”

The man rose and gave her a nod. A simple nod? For a lady? Who did he think he was?

“I’m looking for Jaskier.” The executioner had already moved on. 

“Jask- Oh, you mean _my brother_ , Julian.” Isabella said, hoping she would get more of the recognition she was due. “You just missed him, ser Rivia.”

“Not a ser,” he grunted, rolling his eyes as if reprimanding a forgetful maid. 

“Try the kitchens, third arch on the left. If you’ve come to kill him, don’t get blood on his doublet. I want to make myself an apron with it.”

That finally got her an amused smirk, then he was gone. Isabella grinned, imagining Julian’s surprise to be his public execution to avoid getting wed. Little by little, people started to sit at the tables, waiting for Lord Pankratz to make his speech. Isabella sat on his left with her sisters and the eldests’ husbands. Eric and Gauvain were childhood friends who married twin sisters in a double wedding, which Isabella found extremely tacky. 

“My people,” started Lord Pankratz, then saying the usual things about being a great family, how to plan for the upcoming winter, who was born recently in which family, who died. “As has become tradition, this year we welcome back my firstborn. Welcome home, Julian.”

As the heir, he sat on their father’s right, after their mother. Isabella just then noticed the executioner on one of the tables, as close to the lord’s table as possible. Now, that was entirely improper, given nobody had told her he would be a guest of honor. She started imagining the most epic stories about a blood debt between them, or perhaps he was a hidden relative, or even… no. Impossible.

“Speak, my son.”

Julian made the face of someone who hadn’t expected to be asked to give a speech, but he quickly recovered. As a child already, he had been a performer. Caroline murmured something to Clothilde, both of them eyeing Geralt of Rivia. Rosetta kicked her husband in the shin, anticipating his rowdy answer. 

“It is an honor for me to be back. Two years on the road, which is to say my back hurts like a mother-” Lady Pankratz slapped his forearm, making the bannermen laugh. “I will gladly retell you my adventures at the end of the feast, lute in hand. For now, as you all probably guessed, it is time for me to introduce my esteemed guest. He is the scourge of the elves, killed a golden dragon, saved prince Emhyr from a terrible fate. Common folk call him the White Wolf, you may want to toss him a coin for your monsters. There he is, ladies and gentlemen, Geralt of Rivia, the witcher!”

A veil of silence fell on the room before it exploded in chatter. 

“The witcher? Julian is marrying a witcher? Has he gone completely mad?” Caroline was frantically asking. “Eric, did you hear the same I did?”

“Yes dear, but I don’t think he will actually marry-”

“I’m betting on a Law of Surprise situation,” Isabella intervened, trying to keep Sticky in her chair with one hand.

“If you’re wrong you give me your earrings,” said Clothilde, businesslike. 

“Now you are crazy if you think for one second-”

“Please, please calm down!” asked Julian, raising his hands with a placating smile. “I know he is famous, but I did not only bring him here as a friend and as a hero.”

Isabella noted that said friend and hero looked delightfully murderous at the moment. 

“Indeed, Lady Rosetta Caroline Pankratz sent me a missive-” He searched in his pocket, taking his time to unroll the paper. “‘Dearest Julian, I am dying. Marry quick.’ And who am I to refuse the requests of a dying old woman? We shall be wed next Sunday!” 

There was no calming the room after a declaration like that.


	2. Can I keep him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the kind comments <3 they give me life
> 
> Two new POVs for you, with a little more reserve than Isabella's... Since the chapters are relatively short, I plan on updating at a fairly quick pace (let's say every 2 to 5 days maximum). Isabella remains one of my favorite voices and I've already planned new scenes from her pov, so don't worry Isa fans ;)
> 
> Don't hesitate to tell me in the comments whose POV you would like to see! I have plans for the major scenes, but it's always interesting to have an external perspective

Lady Pankratz closed the door behind her, shutting off the songs and celebrations. Ghislaine’s nurse had taken the girl away for the night three fourth of a candle ago, yet people kept singing along her eldest. Even she had found herself bouncing her leg along the rowdy lyrics. In spite of all the preparations, which she knew to be pointless, Julienne Pankratz was happy to see her son back home.

Never had a baby given her more trouble, from birth to present day. Twice a year he strolled back through the estate like a perfumed whirlwind, some empty-headed young or less young thing giggling at his arm. Knocking at their door in the middle of the night with a witcher in tow, that was unprecedented. Given the smell, they had been on the road for quite some time and crossed several inns on their path to Lettenhove.

She had opened the doors of the estate with full intention to remind him of proper manners by having him and his guest sleep with the horses. Then the boy had called her “mama”, casting aside all etiquette and hugging her like he did before. How was she supposed to resist? 

Now the aforementioned witcher stiffly waited for her word. Lady Julienne noted he hadn’t taken a seat without being offered one, nor had he protested in any way when she demanded he accompanied her. What few information she had on his kind came from her own mother, a notably unreliable source when it came to danger. 

“They’re naught but gruff boys with good manners as long as you don’t ask them to have any emotions and keep them fed. I knew one of them, back in my days-” Lady Julienne, not for the first time in her many years, had questioned the identity of her father. It was a tie between a king, a pirate captain who was rumored to be a Skellige kelp-god in disguise, and an elven shoemaker. Or, the official version that she was indeed the result of a bland political marriage with Count de Lettenhove. But she doubted it.

“Please remember that such a breach of protocol is not my standard,” she started, rearranging her skirts needlessly. “However I will be direct. Forgive me.”

The witcher lowered his head in a rather courtly manner. Not exactly a bow, but a sign of respect. Good manners as long as they’re fed indeed.

“Why do you want to marry my son?” she simply asked.

Another nod, he had expected her concern. Which meant he knew Julian at least enough to be aware of his notorious inability and lack of taste for monogamy. Worry curled around her heart, as the man could very well be after their fortune. The chiseled pin adorning her hair would find his heart before he could try anything.

“I don’t want to marry him. Neither he, me.”

Honesty? How refreshing. “Then what are your true motivations?”

“I am helping him to get out of trouble.” The ‘as usual’ part echoed loud and clear in the words he didn’t say. “In exchange for supplies. Kaer Morhen, the witcher fortress, may be a ruin but it still hosts inhabitants. With the winter coming earlier this year, such help is precious.”

“Do you really understand what a wedding entails, young man? It is not about a simple winter’s horizon, but if Melitele wishes it, several decades worth of winters. There are responsibilities you will have to this family, to this land. As you may have noticed, a hunting accident took my husband’s legs, thus Julian and yourself will have to provide for us all. I still have four unmarried daughters, how will you be useful to them in that regard, as a monster hunter ?”

The man looked even stiffer, to the point where even pale marble looked more alive. Sensing she had the high ground, Lady Julienne pushed further. The sooner they got rid of another of Julian’s strays, the less they would have to spend on a wedding they wouldn’t see through.

“If the rumors are true -and I can only guess how many are not-, you cannot father a child. How will you keep your brothers-in-laws from becoming power-hungry? Wars have started for less than a childless wedding.”  
“I have a child.” His voice had all the gravitas of a landslide. “And I don’t intend to marry your son. So don’t empty your coffers for it.”

“There is some amount of truth in your words, which I appreciate. However, some spending is in order, to convince my mother.”

“Then please allow me to contribute however possible.”

Lady Pankratz raised an eyebrow. Though the witcher’s face didn’t change much, he somehow seemed… embarrassed. And eager to help. What a pleasant change from Julian’s other ‘friends’. A small smile graced her lips, and she held her hand forward. The witcher had a cold, strong grip, but enough social aptitude not to break his potential mother-in-law’s fingers. 

“Your help is appreciated, Geralt of Rivia. When all of this is through, I will make sure you receive your supplies. As much as I love my son, his hide will be tanned to fine leather for promising you things he has no power to grant.” She released his hand, sealing the bargain. “Enjoy the party, dance with my daughters. Otherwise you will regret not having had a pleasant evening, when my mother sends you on your first trial.”

Finally, a hint of a grin on the witcher’s face. A few years back, Lady Julienne would have perhaps blushed. It would be dangerous to let such a handsome man in the company of her daughters for too long. Just one evening was already tempting destiny. 

\---

The disgusting animal Julian called his betrothed paraded in the hall. Caroline hated to see his boots drag mud on the rugs, his unflatteringly black clothes standing out in the crowd like a disgraceful mole. Eric shared her opinion, as he always did. She could see it in the low bend of his mouth.

“We have to get rid of it as soon as possible,” Eric was saying, swaying with her slightly out of pace. “Our name cannot be tarnished by bringing in mut-blooded monster.”

“Damn my brother and his license to do whatever he pleases. Has he no self-respect at all?”

“You and I both know he does not.”

“Serves him right if he gets fleas. Or worse.”

“Gauvain would owe me fifty orens if the clap gets him first. Ouch!” Eric took his hand off her waist to rub at his own shoulder, where Caroline’s ring had hit harder than she intended. “What was that for?”

“Don’t say,” she lowered her voice. “ _Clap_ in front of Clothilde.”

The couple lowered their eyes to the girl, who was babbling some nonsense to her handmaid. It was a common accord between them to avoid the tediousness of parenthood for as long as reasonable. However, if Julian did end up marrying a man -Melitele forbid, a witcher-, the responsibility of producing an heir would be theirs alone. 

“I will fetch us refreshments,” Erica announced, stopping to pretend they had ever intended to dance.

Caroline was distracted by echoes of laughter coming from where her idiotic brother was peacocking. After changing from garish orange silks to eye-straining pink satin, he had finally settled on a jet-black, silver-accented ensemble to match his witcher. Even at a distance, she could see the doublet was too structured not to hide a corset. Old men with bad backs and middle-aged lords with beer guts wore corsets to hide their condition. Young men in corsets were not often found out of whorehouses.

Julian twirled Isabella one last time before bowing to her, slightly panting. They had always been infuriatingly well-matched, with their father’s eyes, their mother’s hair, and all the shenanigans of their grandmother. Caroline almost jumped to stop her sister when she saw Isabella inviting the witcher to join them for a three-people dance. Had they fed the foolish girl enough fairytales that the thought of ill-fated witchers appeared romantic to her? Did she share the gene which prevented Julian from having any sense of self-preservation? Worse, did she share their Lady Rosetta’s… proclivities?

The witcher lowered his head to his tankard, refusing to take part in the dances. Two songs passed without him moving an inch. Eric urged his wife to stop preoccupying herself with this and enjoy the banquet, but she couldn’t. As the eldest daughter, she felt a responsibility to cover her brother’s messes.

Approaching the witcher like he would a hissing kitten, Julian got close enough to put a hand on his forearm. Their eyes remained locked in a silent negotiation as he took the witcher’s drink and put it aside, both of his palms now resting on the other man’s crossed arms. Though silent, the conversation felt white-hot and cotton-soft at the same time. With slow movements, never breaking eye contact, Julian mesmerized the witcher to the point of uncrossing his arms and guiding him closer to the rest of the crowd. 

Placing one large hand on his leather-clad hip and holding the other in his own, her brother rocked slowly, outrageously out of pace. It did not look like either could hear the music anymore. Caroline felt her cheeks heat up, but did not understand why. If they talked, their words were hushed in teasing tones and matching grins, outside world forgotten. As if on cue, the musicians chose a more languid ballad about princesses and white knights. Knowing Julian, he had probably slipped them a few orens to make it just so. 

Eric kissed her shoulder, making Caroline jump. 

“It’s such a Julian song to play, so naive and dramatic,” he commented, though without any heat. “Tell me when you start to feel tired.”

“Is this your way to tell me you feel tired?” she asked with a smile.

“Might be.” He kissed her shoulder again, lingering on the lace resting against her bare shoulder. “Might also be that your mother asked me to talk to the witcher, and I’m looking for any lovely, lovely excuse to avoid that.”

Caroline scoffed, turning to nuzzle her husband’s hair. “Let’s go then, my dear.”

After bidding their farewell to all the relevant people, they ended up simply nodding at Julian. Being himself, he winked back from where his head rested against his betrothed’s neck. His heart was a bumblebee in spring, always landing on a different flower. The witcher would be gone soon enough. No matter how genuine their relationship seemed to be, Lady Rosetta would be its end.


	3. The Ribbon War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the positive comments and love for my OCs! I've been watching Pride and Prejudice as well as Emma recently, both excellent movies with the amount of wedding drama I aspire to write. I know the story is supposed to happen in medieval times but bear with me this chapter feels much more 19th century inspired, because it just fits haha.
> 
> Introducing the character of Grandma Pankratz, written while listening to The Bitch Is Back. She's a terror. I love her.

Pankratz estate. A mess, if you wanted Rosetta’s opinion. Children ran around like headless chicken, guards fattened up faster than midwinter feast geese, every room was perfumed with kitchen smells. Back in her time, it was a prized castle and a proud name. People came from all sides of the continent to kiss her feet, bringing rare and expensive gifts. Now, the most exotic guest they had come from Rivia, of all wretched places. 

Oh dear, dearest Julian. Pretty like a girl, barely smarter than a ball of hay. She loved him with all her dear heart, but knew it was up to her to chase the tramps he dragged in front of her. None had lasted through more than two of her trials, the record belonging to that nice Priscilla girl. Alas, Rosetta knew the look in the bardlet’s eyes. Herself had not ever been convinced of the absolute necessity for monogamy. It was for Julian’s own good, if she drove all those idiotic girls to hysteric tears.

Hitting her cane on the roof of her carriage, Lady Rosetta yelled at her coach driver. It was good for his morale. Poor man would catch himself dreaming she had suffocated to death inside otherwise. As usual, the terrified voice informed her that her daughter’s family was not ready to receive her. They never were. Julienne was scrambling to meet her in trendy dresses a woman her age should never consider being seen in. 

“Mother, what a joy-” 

“Oh cut the crap, Julienne. It’s always the same, my health has never been worse and you frankly couldn’t care less.” Lady Rosetta rose her cane menacingly toward her lackeys, who scrambled to unload her things. “Show me the mutt my grandson dragged at your table.”

The main hall was appalling. A coughing fit took her from all the dust, which was obviously a sign of idle servants. Julienne had never really known how to order those lazy hands around, and it showed. Only three of her granddaughters were there to welcome their grandmother, out of which none had been taught how to curtsy properly. Why bother naming that great pike Rosetta after her, when after a mediocre double-wedding -how _garish_ -, she managed to remain as plain as cobblestones. Caroline at the very least was smart, if weak-willed. Lady Rosetta did not bother learning anything about Clothilde, who blended so well with the dust and spiderwebs that it would be better to leave her there.

“Where is Julian?” she demanded, fiddling with her brooch, displeased to see the future viscount of Lettenhove shared with his parents the inability to be on time. Wherever they got that gene from, it surely wasn’t from her. 

Tired of waiting for over a handful of seconds, Lady Rosetta firmly gripped her cane and walked into the first room she found. Sweet Isabella fell on her like the clap on a covenant, kissing her cheeks and babbling incessantly about the latest gossips. As interested as she was in the rowdy stories, she interrupted the young girl to ask her about the mysterious Rivian’s whereabouts. They were both getting ready in separate rooms, she assured, as it was tradition to keep betrothed apart before their first night -unless they had a knowledge of the many hidden passages of the manor, but appearances were everything. 

She found both stars of the party in their room, her Julian’s hands on an incredibly strong woman’s back, fitting her shirt. The Rivian had long white hair and arms like barrels of mead. She also towered over most people, one or two inches taller than her fiance. The strange picture resolved itself when she turned around, and revealed she was a he. Good, so this was only a nameless conquest, perhaps a bannerman’s son who fell in Julian’s bed in the absence of the lady from Rivia. The boy was terribly predictable. Both men parted as if burned when she cleared her throat to announce herself. 

“Grandmother! You’re early,” he said, a pretty blush warming up his face, trying to find something to do with his hands now that they were unoccupied.

“Good day Julian. Now, if you could show your guest the door, I must meet the poor girl you’ve brought this time. Please tell me she’s at least nobility, even though in Rivia that could only mean her nights are expensive,” she said, a hand covering the jewels of her brooch as if the girl would try to steal it. As a Rivian, she probably would. 

The knight had the audacity to smirk. Did he find the situation funny, he whose smallcloth she could see peeking out of his pants? Young people these days had no sense of commodity.

“Eh, here’s the thing… this is Geralt, of Rivia. Travel companion, local hero and, hopefully, my future husband.”

A silence. “Is this a joke? Do not believe for a single second that you are too old to deserve a good spank, Julian Alfred Pankratz.” 

“He might like that!” yelled Isabella, the little minx, running away from the open door. 

“Is sistericide still outlawed?” grunted Julian, rubbing his hands over his -dreadfully unkempt, was that stubble?- face. “No, it’s not a joke. Before you ask, yes he has lands and no more appropriate female relatives.”

“Does he-”

“Have a child to inherit the fortune? Yes. Also a horse of his own.”

Lady Rosetta huffed, not expecting this very fine young man to be the best party her grandson had managed to drag back to the manor. Most had no titles, lands, fortunes or even manners. 

“Well then, we shall see if he manages to pass my trials. I will not go easy on him even if he has interesting… assets,” she declared, unashamed to roam her eyes over those arms and thighs once again. Shirts would certainly be unnecessary for the first trial, she would make sure to inform him. Something related to water perhaps? One could get creative with such an inspiring sight.

\---

Lady Julienne pressed the heels of her palms hard enough on her eyes to see colorful shapes. All around her, a cacophony of exhilarated screeches and hissed threats could only mean one thing: all of her six daughters were fighting for the great enjoyment of Lady Rosetta. Nothing pleased her like sowing discord. This time, she had relied on the oldest and dirtiest trick up her sleeve: a box of ribbons up for grabs. Such a thing made succession wars look like child play.

Rosie was trying to argument that, having been born a good fifteen minutes before Caroline, she was the absolute oldest and thus had priority on the picks. Caroline, her poor brother in tow, replied that her dresses were much more appropriate for the ribbons Rosie picked, isn’t that right Julian? Amidst all, Isabella hid her own picks in Ghislaine’s pockets in a way she believed to be sneaky. 

Clothilde, poor girl, didn’t dare raising her voice and was getting paler by the second from frustration. Despite being technically the second oldest after the twins, Maghrette was sitting next to her mother with a deeply bored face and a pamphlet on women’s ‘liberation’ on her knees. Gods know where she got that, better destroy it before she got ideas about becoming a witch. Or worse, a spinster. 

Watching over the scene, outside of braid-pulling range, Lady Rosetta gloated. No doubt she was enjoying seeing the tearoom trashed, promises of slow death yelled and children’s pants being used as smuggling operations. All the husbands, these traitors, had pretended it was quite the weather for fishing trout, wasn’t it?

Trout. In January. Under pouring rain. Did they think her so stupid? Couldn’t have they offered her a spot? 

It was too late when Lady Julienne noticed Ghislaine’s hands digging in the trifle with ecstatic awe, then smearing the thick cream all over her face as if nothing else in life could bring her more pleasure. Then she remembered it actually contained cherry liquor, and scrambled to get her handkerchief when the little girl inevitably started screaming from getting it in her eyes. 

“Oh no poor dear,” said Julian with uncharacteristic concern. “Do not bother yourself mother, I will get her to the nurse…” He bent to pick her up from Lady Julienne’s arms. 

“Don’t you _dare_ use her as an excuse to get out of this,” she whispering, maneuvering Ghislaine away from his arms. Then, louder, “No, no, it’s fine I will get her myself. Spend some time with your sisters, it’s been so long since you last had quality sibling time.”

“Please mama, don’t leave me with them,” he urgently whispered back. “If I take sides I’m a dead man.”

“On the other hand, there is something I needed to discuss with you,” she said, taking pity on him. 

When they finally closed the door behind them, muffling the ongoing battle, both sighed from the depths of their lungs. Realizing they did, Lady Julienne smiled at her son and indicated the corridor with a nod. He followed her, relieving the growing weight of Ghislaine from her arms at last. 

“I can never thank you enough for extraditing me from the war zone,” he said once they reached the nurse’s quarters and gave her his sticky sister. 

“My mother thrives on blood and chaos, I’m pretty sure that’s how she managed to live that long. That or she made a pact with a demon, but I’m surprised it wasn’t the other way around.”

“Oh come on, granny isn’t that bad…”

“Do you call her granny to her face?” she smirked back.

“Well no, but-”

“Then she’s that bad. Just wait until she gets that witcher of yours to do something creepy like massage her feet. I see it coming clearer than I see Isabella’s freckles.”

Julian shivered and pulled his tongue out, grimacing to make his mother laugh. An arm around her shoulders, he guided her toward the warm hearth of the library. The love for stories was one she had managed to pass down to all of her children, teaching them all how to read herself as soon as possible. The room was large, well-lit and well-furnished, in ways which showed love rather than status. Where most of their friends maintained a library for the sake of showing it off, the Pankratz took care of theirs like they would of a relative.

Sitting by the fire with cups of tea, mother and son enjoyed the sound of rain on stained glass. They had spent many winters huddled there with their favorite tales. 

“What did you talk about with Geralt, yesterday?” Julian suddenly asked.

“The usual warnings, testing his general knowledge of the situation and inquiring about his financial situation. Nothing out of the ordinary. I thought he handled it pretty well.”

“Ah. Well, he was pretty closed off afterward so I wondered if you tried to tell him to give up…”

“Well,” she took a sip, avoiding his gaze. “I did, but he told me about your arrangement. Which I will have to honor in your place, you rascal. What did I tell you about promising things you don’t own?”

“I know mama, I know,” he replied, a strange sadness in his voice. “I, uh. Don’t tell him that, but I kind of hoped he would change his mind about that.”

“Doing this whole mess for free? You can’t think-”

He forced a chuckle which sounded about as fake as his grandmother’s hair. “Oh I wouldn’t count on him not reclaiming the supplies, he does need them after all. No, I meant, well. I hoped I could offer it as a real wedding gift.”

“As a real-” she gasped, then softened. She placed a hand on his forearm. “Julian, I think you are old enough to understand expecting things out of someone when they agreed on something else is not a good way to proceed.”

“I know, trust me. It’s just wishful thinking. He doesn’t even call me his friend, so I don’t think it’ll get much further than that. It would be nice, though.”

“You two are friends, no worries about that,” she chuckled, tucking him against her chest in a hug. “One does not put up with six sisters, an ailing grandmother and semi-hostile parents for someone they don’t think of as a friend. And I saw you dancing.”

Julian hid his face in her sleeve. “Don’t remind me about that, it was so embarrassing. You would swordsmen have at least a sense of rhythm but it was like swinging a boulder.”

“A boulder whose eyes were on you the whole time, though. Had you been less concentrated on his footwork, you might have noticed.” Lady Julienne smiled, carding her fingers through his soft hair, listening to his troubles and offering her wisdom in return. 

If she saw a tall shadow retreat behind the shelves, she said nothing of it.

**Author's Note:**

> You might ask yourself, why so many OCs? well first, I want to train my hand at writing original female characters, and second there aren't enough women who aren't love interests in fanfics in my opinion, so here we are


End file.
